


Cutting It Close

by Stakebait



Series: Uncovered and other stories [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: Neal lets Peter see that the anklet still bothers him. Peter responds.





	

Peter texting to ask if Neal wanted a ride to work was usually Peter-speak for “I want a blow job.” Not that Neal had any objection to sucking Peter off before work—or after work—or at work, if they could get away with it. He just wished sometimes that they could actually say so. A few sexts to scroll through when Peter was busy, or away, or with Elizabeth would be a nice memento to jerk off to. 

Still, he got it. Rule number of one of everybody comes out of this with a paycheck: no paper trail. Especially since Neal wasn't sure Peter even had a phone that wasn't paid for by the Bureau. And Neal had a feeling Peter would react to Neal buying him a burner phone as if it were a throw-down weapon. As much as he acknowledged the necessity of secrecy, he was awfully touchy about the mechanics.

When Peter arrived, Neal's door was unlocked—not unusual, when he knew Peter was coming, and sometimes even when he didn't. For a New Yorker, Neal was oddly casual about locks—Peter supposed it came from knowing so many people who could pick them.

He pushed open the door—no Neal in sight—checked out the giant closet that would totally pass for a bedroom by NYC real estate standards—and headed for the bedroom. Also empty. Peter used his amazing, FBI-trained powers of deductive reasoning and glanced at the bathroom door.

It was open, just a little. Inside, Neal was naked. Looking in the mirror. And had one foot up on the edge of the sink, an awkward position that made Peter first think of Elle shaving her legs, and then of coming up behind Neal and taking advantage of the easy access it provided. 

And then Peter froze. The leg thus displayed wore the tracking anklet. And in between the strap and his shower-reddened skin, Neal held a knife. 

They both held still for a long moment. “Not today,” Neal enunciated clearly to himself in the mirror. And then he put down the knife, and his foot, rechecked his shave—perfect, as always, no tiny dots of bloodied toilet paper on Caffrey—and came out of the bathroom.

“Peter,” he said, not bothering to feign surprise.

“You let me see that,” Peter said flatly. Neal nodded. He might not lock his doors much, but he knew how to close them.

“Were you seriously thinking of cutting it?”

“Yes,” Neal said immediately, and then, “No. Sort of.” 

He took a breath, started over. “It's been a while since there was much chance of me really doing it. But—I decide every day. It helps.”

Neal didn't often let Peter see how much the anklet chafed him, except in jest. Peter nodded. “It's a ritual,” he said, to show he understood. “Like the corks.”

“I saved one, you know,” Peter added, hoping to balance the vulnerability Neal had shown him with one of his own.

Neal, to Peter's complete astonishment and secret delight, _blushed_. This, from a man who was capable of coming up behind Peter at the photocopier, whispering “I want you to fuck me till I scream your name” into his ear, and then strolling off without turning a hair.

“I know,” Neal admitted. “Jones told me you had some stuff. I searched your place. Sorry. I just... wanted to know what you kept.”

“Nice job,” Peter said, admiring Neal's professional competency. “I didn't catch that.”

Neal nodded. “I put the hair back.”

“We could—go through them someday. Together. If you want,” Peter offered hesitantly. “I bet there are stories I don't know yet.”

Neal looked delighted. But of course he couldn't just say yes. Everything was always a bargain. “On one condition,” he said.

“What?” Peter asked warily. Usually these days this was something pro forma and, Peter admitted to himself, kind of adorable. Like when Neal held his security code for maple syrup ransom, a touch Peter had never gotten the chance to tell Neal he appreciated, after the whole kidnapping debacle. Still, it was important not to get complacent. 

“I want to see the pictures of you from when you were a kid.”

“....Okay.” 

They stood there, Peter completely dressed in his Brooks Brothers suit and Neal completely naked, for a long moment, smiling at each other. 

“We're not like other people,” Peter observed wryly.

“Thank god for that,” said Neal fervently, and tackled him to the bed.

**********************

They were sitting in traffic on the West Side Highway. 

“Why?” Peter asked, after 10 minutes of comfortable silence.

Neal didn't pretend to misunderstand. “I see you looking at the tracker, when we're together. I want you to know you're not taking advantage.”

Truth be told, Neal wasn't completely sure that he _could_ leave Peter, now. Not till Peter was tired of him. But that particular truth wasn't going to be told today, if ever. And it had nothing to do with the anklet, or the threat of prison.

Which reminded him. “You haven't yanked my leash, either, since this started. If you think you have to—” because as far as Neal was concerned, Peter never _really_ had to—“I might be pissed.” Or he might be turned on, which was another truth that was not getting told today. “But no matter how mad I get, I'm not gonna tell Hughes.”

Peter turned on him a look of pure surprise. “I never thought you would.”

Something inside Neal relaxed. “Oh. Well. Good, then.”

Relationship talks, FBI style. The Elizabeth that lived in Peter's head was already laughing.

As long as he was asking questions.... “Would you really suck me off while I'm driving?”

Neal had brain whiplash for a minute. YES was pretty much always the answer to any question that involved “Peter” and “suck,” but he was pretty sure nothing he had said this morning sounded remotely like... oh, right, the movie. Peter's research notes. Neal wondered how often Peter had jerked off to those in the weeks since.

“In the desert?” he said. “Hell yes. Right now, no. Some things don't work at rush hour.”

Fair point. The image of Neal choking on his cock every time the car lurched forward a few feet was.... oddly erotic, actually. But the chance of a car crash, a lot less so.

Oblivious to Peter's sudden reverie—or maybe not—Neal continued on his own train of thought. “Once I can travel again, maybe—the autobahn.”

Peter's knuckles went white on the wheel. He didn't come in his pants like a teenager, but it was a closer thing than he'd imagined possible, at his age. It wasn't just the mental image of flooring the gas—maybe in a Lamborghini like the one he'd...borrowed... on the Franklin case, or the Spyder he'd gotten to test drive—while Neal took his cock deep in his throat and the rumble of the road vibrated his balls and he shot past all the poor fools who didn't have Neal Caffrey's artful tongue for inspiration...

Well, okay, it was mostly that. Elizabeth would kill him if she knew he was even thinking of risking his life (and Neal's, and random strangers') that way, but if the opportunity ever really arose, Peter didn't think he'd be able to say no.

But it was also the first time that Neal had ever, even casually, implied a future for the two of them after the anklet came off. It wasn't a promise to stay with the Bureau, or even in the country. But it was something.

**********************

When Neal looked up at lunchtime, Peter was already gone. It had been a long time since that happened, though sometimes these days they actually just went for lunch. Jones is right, Neal realized, we're getting complacent, trusting that no one here is still paying attention, that they think they know who we are to each other. And maybe they do, but they're still FBI. They watch felons, even the ones they laugh with and complain about the subway to and ask for dating or fashion advice, sheepishly, by the water cooler. And Hughes—Hughes watches everything.

So Peter going—whenever it was he went, to meet Elizabeth, maybe, or just to get a haircut—was a good thing, Neal convinced himself. 

He invited Diana for sushi, that being an occasional habit they'd gotten into after discovering that neither Jones nor Peter much cared for it, on the strict understanding that if Neal made any eating fish jokes she would shoot him in the kneecap.

They were neglecting Jones and Diana, too, Neal realized, as Diana filled him in on several weeks' worth of office gossip on the way to the restaurant. People got out of Diana's way on the crowded sidewalks; proof that humanity has a survival instinct. She walked like she was packing—for good reason. 

Not that Jones craved any attention from Neal, but Peter, yes. They weren't offended yet—Neal would have noticed that, even in his current Peter-induced daze—but they were coasting on fumes and the habit of goodwill at this point, and that wasn't smart.

Neal made amends for his neglect with several of his best June anecdotes over the edamame, and one about Satchmo, just so it didn't seem like he was suspiciously avoiding the Burke household altogether.

The waitress cleared the remains of the miso soup, and Neal made a bit of a production of sharpening his chopsticks rather than meet Diana's eye. 

“So, you and Peter, huh?” she said. It was only barely a question.

“...yeah,” admittedly the normally eloquent Neal Caffrey.

Diana cocked her head and thought it over. “Good,” she said, nodding decisively.

Neal exhaled. “Somehow,” he said, a little giddy with relief, “I thought that was going to be a longer conversation.”

“Because you know how much I love to talk about boys?” Diana asked, her tone heavily freighted with irony.

“Because it was with Jones,” Neal admitted equably.

Diana hesitated, the particular hitch which meant _I'm about to speak ill of someone I respect more than I do you, and you better not take advantage._ Then she shrugged. “Just because it's in the rules doesn't make it justice. Jones forgets that sometimes.” She paused. “I don't.”

Well no, thought Neal, she wouldn't, considering. The only surprising part of that sentence was that Jones could. Straight as an arrow, Harvard boy or not, he was still a black man in America. But maybe that was his way of coping. Everybody had their own.

The waitress started filling their tiny two-top with many small, square plates of glistening raw fish.

“Of course, it goes without saying that if you break his heart, I will use you for target practice,” Diana added conversationally.

“And yet, you said it anyway,” Neal said, pretending to be annoyed. The way Peter's people watched out for him relieved his mind. Neal might not always be here. Jones and Diana would take care of Peter, when Elizabeth couldn't.

“I enjoy threatening you,” Diana smiled.

“Feds,” said Neal, smiling back. “This is why nobody likes you people. Are you gonna eat that scallop?”

“No,” said Diana, sliding the relevant plate towards him, “but touch the eel and I will stab you with a chopstick.”

**********************

They made good progress on the counterfeit handbag case that afternoon, but nothing conclusive. It was still hard for Neal to care about things made by the thousand and smuggled in by the shipping container—now counterfeiting one, one-of-a-kind handbag, that was interesting. Especially if he had the chance to make the exchange while it swung from someone's shoulder. But Peter said Hughes didn't care about Neal's snobby hobbies, and Neal had to admit he had a point.

Peter didn't drive him home and Neal didn't ask—if he got the morning, the evening was Elizabeth's, and if half an hour of rushed groping on the way to work didn't seem like an even trade for hours of relaxed togetherness, well, Elizabeth was Peter's wife and Neal was... not. Considering Neal got Peter all day at work—and often enough, work pushed into the nights and weekends too—Neal thought it was pretty amazing of Elizabeth to offer up any other time at all. He wouldn't have. 

It was good, in some ways. He would have one night blessedly free of radio and TV voices yammering about sports—it seemed someone was always playing something, somewhere, and the amount of banal analysis it could be subjected to put art criticism to shame. He could read. He could have dinner with June. He could spend some time with Mozzie—that was important.

Mozzie was being amazingly patient about all this—“I've been through this with you before, remember,” was all Moz had to say on the subject. “The long con is not your forte. You get attached.”

Neal wasn't sure if Peter was supposed to be Adler or Kate, in this scenario, and he didn't ask. He was pretty sure he had an alias out there somewhere that he himself did not know about, and Moz was squirreling away easily negotiable objects in his name, whatever it was, just in case. Mozzie always had a contingency plan. Unlike with Kate, Neal couldn't really argue it wasn't needed. He really didn't want to argue at all. So they drank wine and played chess and planned hypothetical heists of the old masters, and Neal tried not to say Peter's name as often as he wanted to. 

He was kind of hoping Moz would just be there when he got home tonight—although Mozzie hadn't been doing that as often lately, for entirely understandable reasons. None of them wanted a repetition of the infamous “shirtless Peter” incident.

Sure enough, no one was there when he got home. Someone had been, though. Nothing was obviously missing or rearranged—the place hadn't been tossed, or anything like that—but there was a subtle whiff of foreign air. Maybe Mozzie had come, but given up waiting—though Neal wasn't that late, and Mozzie usually settled in with a puzzle for a while. Maybe June had come to find something she'd stored up here or leave him a newly discovered stash of Byron's finery.

Neal stripped off his hat, coat, and tie, depositing each as he moved through the apartment, not quite searching, but keeping his eyes open for something missing—or something added. No origami—not Alex, then. He was still in the vest and shirtsleeves, because he knew it was a good look for him, dapper but not formal, like an old-time gangster when they still had class. Neal had no desire to actually live in the past—he knew too much about it. But he had no qualms about stealing the good parts.

He finally saw it in the bathroom, where he'd gone to splash cold water on his face, and clear his mind. It was lying out on the windowsill, in plain sight.

It was beautiful.

The blade was a whisper under four inches long, and made of blue Damascus steel, the pattern rippling like a Van Gogh sky. The sapele wood handle was subtly burled. It was fixed, not folding, because New York's crazy knife laws thought that made it _less_ of a weapon, and Peter still cared about following the rules when he could, even the ones that didn't make sense.

Neal picked up the knife and turned it over in his hands. So this was what Peter was doing on his lunch hour. He tested the balance—almost perfect. It wasn't a knife meant for throwing, but Neal could, if he had to. Or filet a salmon or open a package, if he had to.

Or cut a cord.

Neal knew beyond a doubt that this didn't mean Peter wanted him to run. Peter never wanted him to run, not even when they were at their worst, because Peter didn't believe in running. But Peter understood that it wasn't a foregone conclusion for Neal, this morning or any morning. That it couldn't be. In the end, Peter would give him what he needed to make a real choice, even if it hurt him. Even if it hurt them both.

Neal gingerly tested the edge with his thumb—and drew it back bloody, it was that sharp. He wondered if that was meant as another message—if you have to do it, make it quick, and clean.

He could make it quick, if he had to. It was never gonna be clean between Neal and Peter, not ever again. If it ever had been.

He wanted to call Peter, to say thank you. But he didn't want to interrupt his time with Elizabeth. Okay, and he knew the thick rasp in his voice would convey far too much.

Neal still didn't know if he'd be leaving in the morning. But he knew, if he did, he'd be taking the knife.

He called Mozzie, instead. And while he listened to the ringtone bounce around the call forwarders—Mozzie never had less than three—Neal rummaged in his art supplies for a scrap of basswood, to carve a pocket Satchmo with his beautiful, brand new knife. If he didn't go, he could leave it in Peter's desk drawer in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Dotfic for beta reading, and especially her realism about the relative dangers of car accidents versus accidental voyeurism. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> If you're curious, [this](http://www.dicksworkshop.com/news/2016/01/01/damascus-utility-knife-for-kirstin/) is the knife.
> 
> White Collar was produced by Jeff Eastin and aired on the USA Network. No profit has been or will be generated by this transformative work.


End file.
